


Autumn

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-10-03
Updated: 2002-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn't think he'd like to live forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumn

Sam doesn't think he'd like to live forever.

The leaves are just beginning to change; hues of gold and orange freckling the foliage about the Shire. The warmth of Summer lingers in the earth, though, and Sam pats it affectionately before he rises - joints creaking only a little - and brushes his hands down his thighs. Another year, another change of season; he doesn't think he'd like it if they all blended into one. He likes to remember each moment as it was; precious and whole, attached to a time and a place. Elly losing her first tooth, white and sharp in her hand as she held it out to him amidst the lavender patch; her hair threaded with and smelling rich like fresh-cut hay. Tolman; his face screwed up like a red cabbage and screaming loud enough "to wake the dead" -- that was Rose's voice, he could still hear the humour and pride, intermingled with a panting exhaustion, and he could remember turning to catch her fierce grin as she lay back in the sweat-and-blood-soaked sheets.

The raw earth is warm between his toes. He doesn't think he'd like to live forever.

The rose cuttings are just high enough that he can caress the serrated edge of a leaf with his fingers without having to lean over. He won't see them grow, though he can imagine them sweeping high even by next spring, rambling blossoms red amongst green; red and peach like the flush of Rosie's face as the world spun into a blur behind her and she leant back in his arms and laughed, Solstice fires burning dully in the background.

It's warmer in Bag End, only just noticeably so, as if the heat of the earth is curled around the smial like an old cat. Although, it's only dawn outside, and not far enough into Autumn for the sun's glare to be white and icy. Sam always revels in the sunlight no matter what season it is; and he's grateful for the memory of when it never rose. He thinks that he might not even know what light looks like if he hadn't been in the dark, and he remembers Frodo-lad's shrewd glance when he told him that; his son's face still ruddy and gold under the twilight outside Bag End, pipe-smoke wreathing them comfortably.

Fastred asking for his permission to wed Elanor, now there was a memory he would never forget. It was on a day similar to this; they wanted to be wed in spring and needed the whole winter to prepare. Had it all planned out, they did, before the lad even set foot in the door. Sam chuckles a little at the thought; the memory of the squeak in Fastred's voice and the way he choked around the brandy - swilled a little too fast - and Sam's own laughter mingling with the crackling of the fire in the parlour.

Red leather under his fingers; an automatic caress as he slides it into his pack, which is less worn now than it was once; coloured scraps of fabric patching old rents and new. He's able to fasten the brooch at his throat without even looking at it, and he doesn't think he'd like to live forever and forget the slick ridges of its surface, or forget the first time he felt them. He doesn't think he'd like to forget the moment when his fingers fumbled with the catch because he was pinning it on someone else, he doesn't want to forget the taste of ashes on his dry tongue or the way it hurt to swallow when Frodo's eyes seemed to stare right through him.

He thinks that maybe living forever would make him love life less, and he remembers the sadness of the Elves, even amidst their luminous beauty. He thinks of warm earth and rose clippings, and Rose, glowing and swollen with child. He thinks - he _feels_, still - of the heavy burn of joy in his chest as Frodo's voice (Frodo's _own_ voice, and he still feels the heated joy of that) spoke to him above roaring earth and fumes, _"At the end of all things."_

The pony moves beneath him with a familiar, rolling gait, and by the time the sun has risen high enough to bathe the outer wall of Frodo's study in light, he's left Bag End well behind him.

He doesn't think he'd like to live forever, because it seems as if it were just last week that Elanor was begging off going to bed early, and he doesn't want it to feel like she's grown up even faster than it feels now. She walks out to meet him with her arms folded tightly over her breasts and her hair long and flowing like golden water in the salty wind, and the expression on her face is old and beloved; chin furrowed and lips pressed tight.

"You mean to go through with it, then," she says, not really a question, and the Red Book fits into her hands as it always has; Sam knows she loves the feel of it; he remembers how she almost pulled it down on herself once, eager baby hands seeking its smooth, well-worn cover from somewhere below even eye-level of the desk it sat on. He pulls her into his arms and doesn't want to live forever, because forever is a long time never to see her again.

"Look after the others," he says softly to her as his fingers comb through her golden tresses one last time; she's always worn them out since she was old enough for Rose not to braid them for her. She smiles, another thing he'll never forget, and he leaves.

He doesn't want to live forever because Mr Frodo told him once that some of the Elves are so old that when they were first born the sea wasn't even there. That the lands were all different, islands moving about and ice and oceans. He digs his toes into the sand and breathes in the salt deeply, licking it off his lips, and doesn't want to live forever because the sea is forever, to him. It's always been there and he can't imagine it (doesn't like to imagine it) not existing or changing. Though his memories of it are few, and clear.

He stands on the dock. "Wait for me, Frodo," he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/6734.html


End file.
